


Dance Through The Night

by aliitvodeson



Series: I Write Porn Like It's A Bedtime Story [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blowjobs, Dirty Dancing, King Moriarty, M/M, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sneaky Sex, bad historical AU, bottom!John, dancing kink, handjobs, history changed for the purpose of porn, sex in a throne room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They may be the rulers of England, but they still manage to sneak around and have a little fun. John reminds his husband on their carefree childhood with a midnight dance in the throne hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Through The Night

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt by ifyoumoustache on tumblr  
> Johniarty Prompt: Medival AU. Jim is a king and John is his young consort (17-20ish). One night he dresses up in something erotic and pretty clothes and dances for Jim while they're alone in the throne hall. Ends with sex on the throne or a bedding nearby. If you're not up for this thank you for taking the time to read and have a great day! =)
> 
> Well, I was up for it, and I had a great day :)

It hadn't been easy, getting the throne room all to themselves. Sure, Jim was King now and John properly installed as the Lord Consort, but that didn't mean they could order people about willy nilly. Just across the channel, the King and his mother had been sent running from the palace like criminals because of doing just that. Jim was too smart to attempt the same.

Plus there was the fun of trying to get in there alone. It brought back memories of sneaking around at the country court, or finding the proper spots in the maze to lose sight of the guards. Ordering everyone out would be too darn easy.

They make it a game, one of the few left to play, and John wins. For once. He finds the night watchmen asleep, something that normally would leave him raging about the risk they put to the people in the castle. Instead, the sight of their slumped bodies spurs him to run to their chambers, grab the bundle of clothes and close the door loudly on his way out. He hears Jim wake up as he runs grinning down the hallway.

The guards are still asleep by the doors and he slips into the throne room. The sight still leaves him breathless, even after all these years. And he's never seen it like this, empty but for the flickering shadows on the walls. The mosaic images of bibical saints stare down at him with their cold eyes, as if they know already what he plans to do in this holy place. Well, it's not as if he's committing treason. Jim has his son and heir; little Hamish, sleeping happily now in his bed in the western wing. John has no fear of the excuitor as he drops his sweat stained riding clothes.

Despite the long ride from London, he feels as alert as if he had taken the river barge instead.

The door opens, letting in the light from the hallway and the shadow of a man, nightgown fluttering around his knees.

"John?" Comes the sleepy murmur.

"One moment, my king."

And the door is quickly shut. The breeze leaves John shivering. He makes a mental note to have the palace heating gone over. It would not do Hamish good to catch a cold. Or Jim for that matter.

He feels rather than sees Jim circle him, coming up to the throne. He knows, if he choose to look up from his shirt, that Jim would be as regal sitting on it now as he did on any court presentation. A king as true as any of the Russian Tsars or Holy Roman Emperors.

"It does not do to keep your king waiting."

John straightens, stepping forward as he does into the light.

He knows how good he looks. Has not Jim told him a thousand times? Had not Harry, when he was fretting over being presented at court as the Lord John of Northumberland? Had not his mother praised him as the fairest the King could chose, when his wife died in childbirth and freed him to chose from among the Lords and Princes of Europe for a Consort?

The shirt is of sheer silk, cut from the finest Cathay produce. It hangs loose around his chest, like a nightgown, tucked into his breeches. The collar dips low, exposing his chest. The scar from the tilting accident last spring can still be seen, a small pity among the grandeur of the outfit. His breeches are simple, handpicked by Jim, of a dark brown clothe that hugs his legs and gives greater defination to his muscles. The stones of the floor are cold against his bare feet.

He hears Jim sigh loudly.

He hears the music, as surely as if the lyre was being played just behind him. He begins to move, and hears a secondary exhale as Jim realizes what he is dancing to. Cloth rasps on chair as Jim shifts. John smiles and begins to twirl in earnst.

The dance is as simple as it is mesmering, and as precious as it is memorable. He does not look to Jim, knowing within his heart how the sight of this will affect the King. Knows how it affects himself to know that.

The gypsys they had watched, during their childhood at Hamptom Court. The summer afternoons spent running from tutors that faded in evening around fires, dancing to the tamberines and skin drums. The bells they had carelessly wrapped around their waists and the happy calls of fellow children, unrestrained by royal rules and stiffling hallways. The thud of John's feet on the floor and the soft swish of his shirt as he spins. His movements conjure up as this and more as he dances to the music in his head, eyes raised to the guilded ceiling, imaging stars.

He breaks the pattern of the dance just once, to travel closer to the throne. He ends, crumbled on the ground, his hand prostrate out in from of himself, just below Jim's feet. His breath comes ragedy and exhausted but with a smile on his face.

Jim claps slowly.

"Well done. Stand, let me see you." His voice is strangely formal, the perfect english lilt to every word. John stands, and Jim offers him a hand. John grins, kisses the air above it. This game. Perfect; he hadn't thought this out beyond the dance but of course Jim knows how it should pan out. "Such a beautiful, wild thing I seem to find myself faced with. It seems you have bared your soul for me. Pray tell, gypsy, what can I offer you?"

John finds it hard to hold a straight face. "Only your company, my liege."

There's twinkle in Jim's eyes that contrasts with the foreboding stares of the statues above them. The throne room is not often privy to the King's smiles. "That would seem a simple gift to grant. Come here."

He pats his leg and John scrambles to sit, his body already shaking with anticipation. Jim runs a hand down his arm, gripping his waist lightly. "What would you do for me?"

"Anything for you, my King."

The answering grin is anything but king-like. "Undo you trousers."

He is soon bearft of his tousers, the light silk of his shirt fluttering around his erect length. Jim's hand slides lower, to wrap warm fingers around John's waist. His voice comes heavy and low in John's ear. "Ready for you king. I like preparded subjects."

John's answer, however cheeky it might have been, is lost in the keen that escapes his mouth. For Jim has begun to stroke him, rubbing a hand all over John's cock. John arches and pushes into the touch, earning a chuckle from Jim, who swats him on the waist but continues to stroke.

The throne room, normally so hard to heat in the winter, heats up rather quickly.

His completion, spilled over onto Jim's hand with a cry of Jim's name, leaves John weak, cuddling against Jim's touch as if a babe in the arms of it's mother.

Jim's erection pushes into his side. "You didn't take care of your King. Bad, bad boy."

John gives a half heartened protest as Jim nudges him downwards, sending a more determined prayer that the guards outside stay asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So I probably did too much research for a PWP, but hey. I learned some cool facts.  
> The throne room under the Tudor dynasty, my favorite English time and so the setting of this fic, is this big red room at St. James's Palace. It's rather impressive, if you google photos of it. It is one of the only throne rooms in English history to have a single throne, rather than a pair (for ruler and consort).  
> Hampton Court was built mainly under the guidance of Henry VIII. It's a gorgeous musuem, with some of the best gardens in this author's opinion. One of the neatest things is the moat. It is not a connected moat, but simply a dry ditch in front of the main gates. It's like the builders were trying to do the German dry moat, where the Kings could hunt in, but got too lazy after the first two hundred yards.  
> Of course, there has never been a gay King and Consort of England. But the most likely way this could have happened historically is if the King already had a son or two (heir and a spare). The dynasty would have been assured, so maybe he'd be free to have sex with the cute Lord next door.


End file.
